


It Ends Tonight

by Bleto



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, One Shot, broken relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 06:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4090459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bleto/pseuds/Bleto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>what happens when fame gets in the way of a relationship? Tom is about to find that out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Ends Tonight

“Where were you?” His voice startled me, making me jump. I stood by the door, facing it, not daring to look behind. And when I did, I saw nothing but pure darkness, except for the dim light of the moon that poured in through the window, washing over the furniture. But I didn’t see him. There was no sight of him anywhere. And I sighed, somewhat relieved. The fear of getting caught had been haunting me for weeks now and it had gotten to the point where I imagined his voice. 

I ran my fingers through my hair and started for the bedroom, but was stopped short when I heard his voice again, repeating the same question sternly. It couldn’t be my mind this time, plating tricks on me. And with a slight shaking, I turned around. The place I was standing at end the dim light provided me a new sight, and I could now see him sitting on the black leather chair we cuddled up in during rainy days. The moonlight stroked his features, dancing off his skin and black dyed hair. I saw a bottle of liquor on the coffee table and a full glass of said liquor in his hand. He was staring unseeingly at the window. 

I froze in my spot, looking at him, without knowing what t say, what lie to come up with to get myself out of the problem. But… did I really want to lie again, to make up a story so he wouldn’t ask any more questions? I wasn’t sure I did. I was exhausted. Exhausted of hiding, of keeping this charade going. Exhausted of pretending, of lying to him and to myself. There was no point in being constantly in a state of alert, watching my back, fearing he might find out one day. Fear and guilt were eating me up slowly. It just wasn’t worth it anymore. So, this time, I didn’t lie. I didn’t hide behind a story. I finished what I had started. 

Sighing silently, I approached him, feeling my heart in my throat ad tingling of nervousness creeping up my back. I gulped against the huge not forming in my throat. I placed myself in front of him, letting my bag fall onto the floor. I looked at him but he didn’t look at me. I knelt before him so we could be face to face and I placed my hands onto his knees. I looked up at him and, forcing my voice from the back of my throat, I said: “We need to talk, Tom.” 

He blinked and swallowed, but never did he look back at me. His gaze was lost beyond that window, hoping silently this wasn’t happening at all. “Tom,” I uttered, placing my right hand onto his left one, but he slid it free. 

I looked down at my hands and bit on the inside of my cheek, trying to fight back the tears that sprung to my eyes. It was selfish feeling like this, feeling hurt by his actions, when I was the one to blame for all of this. But that didn’t prevent me from feeling the way I did. 

“How long?” he said, his voice was raspy from the alcohol and the tears that I knew he had shed. 

“Over six months,” I answered, not daring to look up at him. 

He chuckled a little, but he wasn’t amused. It wasn’t his usual chuckle, full of joy. No. This one was full of sadness and disappointment. 

“Six months,“ he repeated, mostly to himself, as if processing the information just given. 

He brought the glass to his lips and drank what was left of the content in one sip. He placed the glass on the small table next to him and stood up, nearly making me fall to the floor. He headed towards the window, leaning his hands onto the frame, giving his back to me. I stood up as well, but didn’t follow him. The only thing that my eyes met was the back of his head; his long black curls that I loved so much. And that I knew I would never get to entwine my fingers into. 

“Who is it? Do I know him?” he asked, never turning his face to me. 

“Tom, it doesn’t matter—“ 

“But it does matter,” he said, turning around. His face was tear-stained; his eyes were puffy and bloodshot. And my heart sank to the floor. I had done this to him. All the tears that he had spilled were because of me. 

“Joel: my boss. You know him,” I said, almost in a whisper and lowering my gaze. I was too ashamed to look him in the eye while I confessed my «sin». 

“Joel?” he asked skeptically. “He came here on Christmas. I myself invited him. I didn’t know you two got along so fucking well.” He huffed, sarcasm lacing through his voice. “I should’ve known. I should’ve seen the signs. The way he looked at you. The way _you_ looked at him. Those smiles you threw at each other all night. It’s just…” He trailed off, shaking his head. He bowed his head and brought his right hand to his face, squeezing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. 

“Tom, I’m sorry. I—“ 

“How is he?” he cut me off, his eyes still downcast. 

“What?” 

“Is he any good?” He looked up at me, anger and jealousy flashing in his glassy eyes. “Is he better than me? Does he touch you in places that I don’t? Does he make you cum in ways that I can’t? Does he make you scream like I do? Do you cum together?… Do you enjoy it? 

“Tom, _please_ , stop it,” I pleaded as I felt the knot of tears forming in my throat and behind my eyelids. 

“No. Tell me,” he demanded with tears in his eyes. “What is it that he’s got that I have not?” I looked at him pleadingly, begging he would stop this torture for us both. “Tell me!” he yelled, tears rolling down his face; that beautiful face of his. 

“Time!” I yelled back, my own tears staining my face. “He’s got time, Tom. Time to take me out for a dinner, a normal dinner, with no paparazzi and cameras and flashes blinding me; with no awkward silences. He has got time to listen to what I have to say, to share his day with me. He makes time to undress me slowly, to make love to me. And the time to cuddle after sex, to talk about non-transcendental things while we slip into slumber in each other’s arms. That, Tom, is what he’s got that you have not.” 

He stood there in front of me, speechless. Tears rolled down his cheeks, staining it. He gazed at me, sadness dancing in the dead blue of his eyes. And seeing him like that broke my heart. How did we manage to do this damage to us? Why did we allow it? Why didn’t we do anything to stop it in time? We could have fixed it, together, back then. But not now. It was too late to try to fix our mess. 

“So, it’s my fame what bothers you?” he asked thickly, swallowing the tears in his throat. “Is that it? Because you knew what you were getting into when we started dating. I never lied to you, did I? I told you from the very beginning how things were going to be between us,” he reproached. 

“So, what, am I supposed to settle with whatever scraps of time and attention you throw my way?” I snapped at him. 

“I never said that.” 

“Yes, you did!” I raised my voice. And silence reigned again. I sighed heavily and brought my hands to my head, running my fingers through my hair. I tried to control myself before I spoke again. 

“It’s not your fame, Tom. It’s never been,” I said calmly. Needless was to say what the real problem was. He knew. He knew it all too well. 

“Then what is it? The paparazzi, the cameras? I can change that.” There was pleading laced through his voice and his eyes. Now he was desperate. And I couldn’t help the ache in my heart. And wiping the tears away from my face, I walked towards him. I stood in front of him. Despite how tall he was, he seemed so small now, so weak, so… different. 

He looked away; tears kept coming from his eyes. He looked defeated and weary. His shoulders fell forward, slouching. His clothes were disheveled as well as his hair. The look in his eyes told me he hadn’t slept in days, and the tears that now covered his face weren’t the only ones that had been spilled. How long ago did he find out about it? How long had he been waiting up for me, torturing his mind with scenarios? I didn’t know and probably never would. 

“Tom,” I called, trying to get him to look at him. And when he didn’t, I placed my hand onto his cheeks. He instantly leaned in against it and closed his eyes. “Tom, look at me,” I asked sweetly as I stroked his whiskered cheek. And when his eyes came open, they locked on mine. All I could see was pain and sadness in the blue of his eyes. Nothing more. The spark that let everyone know he was happy was long gone. 

“We can work this out,” he whispered. I shook my head. 

“No, Tom, we can’t.” 

“Yes, we can.” He insisted. 

“There’s so much pain, so much damage now. We can’t continue like this. I can’t.” 

“Are you in love with him?” he asked all of a sudden, taking me by surprise. I hadn’t really thought about it. He was just an escape from the reality I wasn’t brave enough to deal with. 

“Tom, please—“ 

“Just answer me.” He pleaded. “Are you in love with him? Do you… love him?” He paused and swallowed hard. His pained eyes stared into my eyes, piercing through me. “Do you love him more than you love me?” 

I sobbed as I felt the burning of tears in my eyes before they fell down quickly. I took his face between my hands gently and looked at him in the eye. 

“I could never, _ever_ , love anyone more than I love you.” 

He placed his hands on my forearms and leaned down, pressing his lips against mine. I didn’t stop him. I didn’t want to. He sneaked his arms around my waist and pulled me closer, placing a hand on the back of my head, deepening the kiss. I tasted him. I tasted his lips as much as I could. I breathed in his scent as much as my lungs allowed me to. I pressed myself against him, willing to imprint every single detail of his body in my mind. I wanted him to linger in my senses long after I had gone. I wanted to remember him. And I wanted him to remember me. 

We broke off the kiss slowly, elongating the inevitable end, making the taste linger on each other’s tongue and the touch on our skins. I caressed his cheeks, wiping away the tears that kept falling from his beautiful eyes with my thumbs. I looked him in the eyes and smiled sadly at him as I brushed his hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear. This was the last time I would ever see him, touch him, kiss him. It was the last time I would be near him and that made my heart shatter into million little pieces. I wanted to remember every last detail of him to get me through the hard times. 

I lifted myself on my tip-toes and placed a short kiss on his lips. “Good bye, Tom,” I said on his lips, trying to fight back the tears forming behind my eyelids before I detached myself from his warm embrace. 

I turned around, grabbed my bag, and headed for the front door. I didn’t restrain the tears from falling anymore. I didn’t want to. I felt destroyed. How did we end like this? When? Why? Six years of marriage had gone out the window just like that, like they were nothing. We could get rid of the photographs, the gifts, the homemade videos, the material belongings. But could we get rid of the memories, the warmth of the other, the safety of being in each other’s arms; the happy moments, the sad moments, the difficult times? Could we possibly get rid of the smell of the other, the sound of our voice, the kisses, the touch, the feelings? Maybe we could, eventually. The faces would become blurry with time and the memories would be less painful with each passing day. Eventually we would become a harmless thought, one you can brush off easily as if it were dust. 

But… could we? Could we really? 

I opened the door and stepped outside, when I heard his voice calling my name. I stopped dead on my tracks and looked up at him. I saw pleading in his puffy eyes and I if he had asked me right then to stay, I would have agreed. No questions, no but’s, nothing. I would have just said yes. We would have found a way to make it work, to find ourselves again. 

But he didn’t. 

He simply spoke the three words that, back then, had filled my days with joy for six years. Now, they hurt my already battered heart instead. “I love you.” 

I tried to smile but failed roundly. I let the tears stream down my cheeks as I felt my heart sinking to the ground. 

“I love you, too, Tom,” I muttered, my voice cracking at the last word, before closing the door behind me, leaving my heart inside, in Tom’s hands.


End file.
